


act ii.

by eyemoji



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, also is anyone else really please by ao3 being called 'archive of our own' in this context, but i hear it's jailbreak january so, feels appropriate enough, hello magnus fandom it is i, wasn't intending my first magnus content to be elias-related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 12:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17425814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji
Summary: elias doesn’t know if he’ll ever be entirely sure as to whether it was the Beholding in him or the human portion that first led him to grab peter lukas by the shirt lapels all those years ago.  if the distinction even matters, that is.it doesn’t at the moment, he admits.





	act ii.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, my name's ai, and i only write in lowercase

the watcher’s crown will take place on february fourteenth.

 

as far as elias bouchard is concerned, this is a fact.

 

unfortunately, as far as peter lukas is concerned, this is a problem.

 

he stands (floats? elias doesn’t care which and isn’t concerned enough to See) in front of elias’ desk, arms crossed, lips set in an unforgiving block, eyes boring into elias’ chest, as if petulance was an outfit he saved for special occasions and it's time for cinderella’s ball. gone is the trademark overtly-genial casual manner, gone as cleanly as the hand on his right arm, and elias has time and patience for none of it.

 

he says as much, tone intentionally uninterested, lips curving upward as he watches the corners of peter’s eyes tighten, the change almost imperceptible, even to someone with near-omniscience.

 

“it’s not fair, elias,” repeats peter, and elias would very much like to respond with _and we are adults, peter._

 

“this is meant to be an equal alliance.”

 

_we already discussed this, peter._

 

“this date will make our side of the job infinitely more difficult; valentine’s day does not a lonely man make.”

 

_speak for yourself, peter._

 

peter knows, of course; he may not have an association with the Beholding beyond elias, but that, it seems, is enough for him to be able to read the unspoken words off of elias’ face (which, to anyone else, would seem to not have shifted in the slightest.) he opens his mouth to continue, and elias builds and runs through a quick list of possible ways to get him to shut up on the matter. he knows peter well enough to have a delightful array of options as far as the current situation is concerned; unfortunately they all come with the catch that he’ll likely be as distracted as peter will, though in the interest of preserving his own sanity that seems like a win-win situation.

 

 _temporal airdrop_ isn’t necessarily the most elegant term for his ability, and caters far too much to a certain technological sphere, but it works well enough to function as a layman’s descriptor for something that, really, takes quite a lot of effort and preparation to get right, not that there’s anyone around to hand out awards for best in show (the faded, untouched “#1 Boss” mug that’s been sitting on elias’ desk for years will do, he supposes.) he closes his eyes, sighs, and can _feel_ the rolling of peter’s eyes as he braces himself for what’s coming, for whichever memory elias has decided to dredge up from the depths of his subconscious.

he hopes peter won’t make this _too_ difficult.

 

***

 

 _elias doesn’t know_ if he’ll ever be entirely sure as to whether it was the Beholding in him or the human portion that first led him to grab peter lukas by the shirt lapels all those years ago. he remembers the curiosity that had slowly welled up in him the longer he kept eye contact-- and he’s not sure that peter’s own affiliation played but a small part in that-- he remembers the sudden ache in his chest that had prompted him to cross the small room-- this very room, in fact, the part of him grounded outside of the memory recalls-- he remembers the thrill that had come with the first touch of peter’s lips to his own. but he doesn’t remember whether the inspiration had been his own, or if the powers that be had had a greater purpose in mind. if the distinction even matters, that is.

 

it doesn’t at the moment, he admits. not when he’s found himself back standing off to the side of the lukas family mansion (well, _one_ of the lukas family mansions,) frame lighter, body younger, suit and hair impeccable, the way he still likes it. _not_ the way peter would prefer, as he is about to find out, he knows, standing the closest he’s ever been to awkward in a ballroom inside his own memory, untouched flute of celebratory champagne in his left hand. every now and then he brings it to his lips in a pretense of drinking, but he is very careful not to let the liquid touch his lips.

 

“ _there he is_ ,” says a voice familiar in its joviality, and elias turns to see a much younger peter lukas aiming his trademark smile towards him, the suit thrown onto his form almost artful in its casual disarray. “ _the man of the hour._ ”

 

elias isn’t sure how _aware_ this peter is; if he can manage to remember where and what he is, or if the peter lukas of his now and peter lukas of the past are, for all current purposes, one and the same. as he turns and smiles, following the script of his own, unforgiving memory, he notes that this peter lukas still has both his hands, can almost feel their intent in the intensity of knowing what comes next. _but it’s not time for that, yet_ , he thinks. _we’re hardly through the first act._

 

peter comes up to him, a shorter, timid-looking man tagging along somewhat apprehensively beside him.

 

“i hear some congratulations are in order,” he says, and every inch of him seems to be beaming bright as the sun.

 

“hardly,” says elias, because he’s not supposed to trust him yet, even if his family funds his newly-bestowed Archive, and because he wants to seem humble, since cozying up to said benefactors can never hurt, and because he really didn’t _do_ anything, not yet; this “promotion” is more than a formality than anything, and he and every lukas alive knows it, including the one that stands before him now.

 

“now, now, _director_ ,” peter says, and elias notes the twinkle in his eye, reminiscent to him now as identical to that of one of the archival assistants-- tim, he dredges up, though, immersed in the memory as he is, pulling up the name is much harder than it ought to be-- at the date this memory originates, timothy stoker won’t yet have been born.

 

peter turns to the man beside him, who up until now has remained wholly silent, eyes fixed on elias with nothing less than indiscriminate terror. fair enough, elias supposes, though he doesn’t recognize his face as one that’s entered the Institute. he notes the arm peter has thrown around his waist, loose enough to seem casual, tight enough to be a grounding weight, and elias’s gaze tracks the motion as peter draws him in closer and laughs. elias takes no end of satisfaction when the fear on the man’s face doesn’t diminish in the slightest.

 

“come now,” peter says, then, after a pause, “oh, but i must introduce you.” turning to the man-- “this, as i’m sure you know, is elias bouchard, the new director of the magnus institute; isn’t that nice?”

 

the man mumbles something in agreement as peter continues. “elias, this is--” and here he says something that elias doesn’t find worth listening to as he turns his attention to a flurry of motion near the sole (visible) entrance to the ballroom. there’s a bit of a commotion; some sort of argument, or at least something meant to look like an argument; the perfect distraction, but for what? the lukases throw parties too often for a family supposedly marked by the Lonely, and their centuries of experience mean only a fool would attempt to gain an upper hand in their domain; _so what’s different tonight?_ elias thinks, but even as his mind makes the words, his own presence in the room is uncomfortably obvious; the fingers curled around his champagne flute grip a little tighter and his eyes begin scanning for an escape, for an enemy, for a sign; of what, he doesn’t know-- a hand falls on his shoulder. he tenses.

 

“someone’s jumpy,” remarks peter, eyebrows raised lightly, and when elias’s face shifts straight through shock past annoyance into confusion as to the whereabouts of his companion-- or lack thereof-- those eyebrows only climb higher.

 

“a man needs his sustenance,” he says, plucking the champagne flute out of elias’s hand, and elias’s shoulders drop in resigned acknowledgement of the bad joke before he grasps the full meaning of his statement.

 

he recovers quickly.

 

“not exactly the most hospitable family, are you?”

 

peter takes a sip of the champagne before answering.

 

“i have it on good authority you know exactly how hospitable we lukases can be.”

 

if elias were a lesser man he would have flushed.

 

“and yet i have yet to meet the hosts of this particular event.”

 

“no need. they’re such a bore, really; i promise, you’re making better company with me.”

 

“two is hardly company.”

 

“ah, but three is a crowd, wouldn’t you say?”

 

no, elias would not say, but there’s something about the smile peter gives him when he says it, set against the soft curls of his hair, that stops him from fully denying it.

 

instead, he watches peter drink his champagne with a curious tilt to his head, as if he’s memorizing the motion for the centuries to come.

 

***

 

peter is breathing a bit harder as he takes a step back to brace himself, hands gripping the edge of elias’s desk with such ferocity elias might almost be scared for its structural integrity.

 

“hardly your best, elias,” he gets out, and a thin smile curves across elias’s lips even as he masks the effort.

 

“i didn’t think you were worth the effort, but if you _insist_ …”

 

peter raises his head to look elias square in the eye, and elias is struck by how much of a difference the lack of a grin aimed his way makes.

 

“pleasantries never really were your style,” peter manages to get in, before--

 

***

 

it’s the same party; elias can tell instantly, and he’s struck at how, with all the knowledge rattling around in his head, he’s capable of being so sure of the fact. they’re no longer in the ballroom, sequestered in the privacy of someone’s study-- not peter’s, he’s sure, but a lukas’s nevertheless, which makes it dangerous. immediate danger isn’t the subject on his mind anymore, though, not when peter sets his champagne glass aside on the desk and moves in a little closer, something a little hungrier than what he normally allows himself to express written across his face. elias, despite himself, takes a step back, not out of fear, or surprise, but simply because he’s curious how peter will react.

 

peter stops. cocks his head. laughs.

 

“of course,” he says.

 

elias rests his head on the mahogany bookshelves behind him, expression clearly demanding an explanation. peter doesn’t give him one. instead, he stands there, still a good two to three feet away from breaching elias’s personal space, not indicating any desire to move forward, not reaching back for the abandoned champagne glass; merely studying him the same way he himself is being studied. it takes every ounce of elias’s self-control to remain still.

 

peter waits, expression placid once again, and there’s something gnawing at elias, as if he ought to do something, break the deafening silence. if he takes his gaze off of peter for more than a few seconds, he can almost pretend he’s alone in the small study-- and oh, isn’t that the point? he tests his theory, turns his attention to the flute on the desk, does his best to focus on the few weak bubbles left fizzing through the drink, standing brightly out against the monolithic dark-paneled wood of the surface it sits on. the longer he stares at their hypnotic motion, the less sure he is that there’s another human presence in the room, the greater the itch to turn back and check, to make sure he hasn’t been abandoned, left alone to rot in a room infinitesimal compared to the maze that is any lukas mansion.

 

he fights the desire, reminds himself it is not entirely his own, points out the logic that if peter had left, he would have heard the door to the study being pulled open, heard the gentle click of the door handle being turned.

 

and still, the air in front of him where a man ought to stand feels horribly cold.

 

he smiles when he feels the light touch against his waist. it means he’s won, means peter has given in this round. the part of elias still rooted in his present, this elias’s future, feels a wistful pang for when getting peter’s agreement only meant he had to hold out long enough. the rest of him doesn’t do much to hide the glee in his voice as he says,

 

“lonely, are we?”

 

he expects peter to shoot back something along the lines of “just thought you could use a hand,” or “i thought you preferred the lukas brand of hospitality,” or perhaps something like “not with you around,” the disgustingly saccharine line delivered with a twist of the lips that will reassure elias he’s joking. instead, peter buries his nose into the back of his neck, and his lips move against where elias’s shoulderblades meet as he says,

 

“always.”

 

it’s low, if soft, and definitely not a promise that portends anything but tumultuous trouble ahead, but elias accepts it anyway, tips his head up and back into the hollow of peter’s neck as peter’s lips move around to the side of his neck and across his collarbone, not quite kissing, just pressing, lightly, to elias’s skin, enough for sensation, but sparing enough to leave elias wanting-- no, demanding-- more.

 

peter takes the opportunity to turn elias the full way to face him, one hand liberating him from his stuffy collar as the other slides around his back to come to rest on the other side of his waist. he finally lays the first proper kiss, against the cut of elias’s jaw, before pulling back to study his handiwork, almost looking like enough of a proper student of the beholding that elias wants to pin him down himself. the hand previously undoing the top half of elias’s buttons slides over to his arm, traces down its length until his fingers encircle his wrist, and elias watches, unblinking, as peter raises it to his mouth to kiss it, feather-light and quite out of character from all their previous interactions.

 

whatever his intentions, elias doesn’t let it stymie him, instead choosing to suppress a roll of his eyes in favor of letting his gaze pointedly rise to peter’s lips, wrist still resting loose in peter’s right hand.

 

and then they’re kissing, harder, and elias is pulling peter down to meet his mouth with a force more powerful than any ocean current peter’s ever felt, and he doesn’t even have the space to think about how, by the next morning, he’ll be gone, set off on another one of his various expeditions, glowing with the ache of loneliness devoured from those he’s left behind.

 

he already knows that elias will not be feeding him this time.

 

***

 

both of them are gasping like fish out of water as the memory ends, dumping them back into the cold reality of their current situation. elias recovers first, loosens his tie and mops his brow with the handkerchief on his desk, of the type that only he could still carry in this day and age. peter’s knuckles are white against the desk as elias slowly, excruciatingly, presses his hands against his thighs to hide the sweat of his exertion, then re-tightens his tie in a motion too painful to watch. he stands, and rounds the desk, and for a moment peter swears he intends to recreate the scene they’d just witnessed. his breath hitches in an anticipation he can’t quite place-- it’s not like elias, to be this bold-- but to no avail.

 

elias must know what he’s thinking as he doesn’t break stride towards the door-- he _absolutely_ must, peter realizes, once the nature of their setting, of the institute comes hurtling back to him in a moment of clarity.

 

elias, for his part, manages to hold his professional composure, even if a little bit of victory seeps through as he turns back to peter, hand upon the door, to remind him:

 

“february fourteenth, captain. see you then.”

 

peter’s right arm tingles with the ghost of a hand and the wrist it once held.

**Author's Note:**

> i was gonna say something here, but i promptly forgot, so just hit me up on tumblr @ justasmalltownai


End file.
